


The Eyes of Blenheim: Chapter Nine

by itstonedme



Series: The Eyes of Blenheim [9]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, Edwardian Period, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstonedme/pseuds/itstonedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orlijah meets <i>Downton Abbey</i>.  The year is 1905.  Orlando is the 9th Duke of Marlborough, married to the beautiful Olivia, with two children.  Elijah is his personal valet, a minister's son.  We're coming into the home stretch.  Nasty attitudes and behaviours will make themselves known.  Enormous thanks to Stormatdusk for creating the banner for this series, where it was originally posted in February 2014 over <a href="http://itstonedme.livejournal.com/96337.html%22">here</a>.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: Fiction.  No disrespect intended to any persons.</p>
<p>Feedback: Always appreciated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eyes of Blenheim: Chapter Nine

**Chapter 9**

Whatever affection that Olivia had hoped might be building between her and Orlando slides sideways in the weeks that follow. She cannot help but notice a growing conviviality between her husband and his valet, which she credits entirely to the time they spend together on their frequent business trips into London. It annoys her. She doubts that if she had accompanied her husband in Wood's stead such friendliness would have resulted. There is a standoffishness to her relations with Orlando that has had nothing to do with time spent. Nor have his dwindling nocturnal visits done much to sustain what she had hoped was being revived. Her interests seem to bore him for the most part. Or rather, she – and everything she represents save for her bank account – seem to bore him. Wood is only one of many on staff who engage her husband in ways she cannot.

Nevertheless, the outcome has been a decided lack of affection on her part for those among the staff whom her husband regards fondly. Any earlier pleasantness she might have shown to the duke's personal valet has resolved into a cordial formal manner whenever Wood is in the presence of others, especially when her husband can be counted in the number. But coolness prevails when Wood is alone. Olivia cares not that she is taking her petty jealousy out on one less able to defend or protect himself from her disdain. She is a young, lonely woman who has yet to develop pursuits that will take her mind off the limitations of her circumstances. 

At least until recently. Orlando regards Olivia's increasing equestrian explorations of the duchy, which include the nearby town of Woodstock, with relief, especially since she seems to return from these excursions happy and full of conversation. Orlando knows this is due to her riding mate, the stable manager, Mortensen. He is not oblivious to Mortensen's personal appeal, although he suspects his stable manager may be more simpatico with horses than with women or even men, if that is his taste, something no one really knows. But Mortensen's presence in Olivia's routine has deflected her attention from Orlando's need to seek out Wood. Orlando knows that he and his wife live very transparent lives. If they dwelt in a small cottage in the country, he would care little that he is at risk of being cuckolded because no peering eyes would be there to talk about it. But they reside where all manner of staff track their every move, and his wife's reputation needs consideration. Orlando doubts she is being more than flirtatious, although he knows he wouldn't be the first husband to be caught unawares. He does not, however, discuss it with Olivia. It serves his private interests better for eyes to be turned in her direction.

Elijah is fully aware of these circumstances because the downstairs prattle prevents him from escaping it. Her Grace's new activities are a bit of a scandal, although an envious one among the housemaids. Every one of them to a woman wouldn't mind a tumble in the hay loft with the rugged groomsman. Elijah and Orlando continue to grab and grope with desperate and increasing frequency, thankfully due to her Grace being in the saddle, so to speak, elsewhere. It is a situation, however, that Elijah despairs will lead to ill. He can feel the escalation, not only of their passion and need, but of the danger and disclosure. 

*

With his father too busy with the affairs of the estate and his mother visiting the stables more often, little Lord Andrew is chafing to accompany her, even though he is many years removed from being able to do so. Not that the child accepts this.

"Let's put you on Jupiter and have a lesson on the lawn," Elijah suggests one day to stem the boy's tears after Olivia has arranged another afternoon ride with Mortensen.

"I don't want to ride Jupiter," the boy pouts.

"But Jupiter is your best challenge," Elijah replies. "He's feisty and unpredictable, and on Jupiter you will learn to become an excellent horseman, just like your mother and father. Plus we'll use a lead line."

This is new. Lord Andrew smears the tears from one eye and looks at Elijah. "Will you let me trot?"

"On one condition."

"What?"

" _'What is that condition, please?'_ " Elijah corrects. "When you fall, you will climb right back on, no tears and no running to your parents for sympathy."

Lord Andrew takes all of one second to reply. "I shall not fall off."

"I did not say "if" you fall off. I said "when". That's because ponies have a very bumpy trot and even the best riders find it very difficult. Bumps and bruises are part of learning."

Andrew is already walking toward the stable. "I shan't tell," he says over his shoulder. "And I shan't fall."

The youngster is good on the first promise and admirable in his efforts on the second. Elijah works a very short lead line, no more than six feet, and the simple fact of the greater distance from adult to pony is enough to keep Lord Andrew happy at a walk for the better part of ten minutes. Elijah talks him through the means of making the pony stop and start using a gentle hand, firm little leg aids and voice commands, and Andrew is beaming with his successes. 

"Mommy, look at how well Jupiter listens to me," Lord Andrew calls out at one point, and Elijah turns to see Her Grace approaching in her riding boots, jodhpurs and jacket, her leather gloves and crop in one hand.

"Indeed, he does," Olivia calls back. As she approaches, she reaches out for the lead line and says to Elijah, "I'll take it from here, Wood." 

Elijah knows from her tone that he has been summarily dismissed. He nods his head politely and hands her the coiled strap.

"Where is Wood going, Mommy?" he hears young Lord Andrew ask as he walks back towards the palace.

The disquiet Elijah feels is as palpable as it has been on similar occasions in recent weeks. He does not know what has caused it because he knows that he and Orlando have been exceedingly discreet. He does not know what he can do to rectify it, if in fact he can do anything at all. 

Later in the afternoon, as Orlando changes for afternoon tea, Elijah asks him, "Do you think Her Grace suspects anything?"

"Why do you ask?" 

"There is a decided chill in her regard towards me. But you mustn't say anything to her about it. It is something you cannot have heard from me."

Orlando sits to slip on a shoe. "Bollocks," he utters. "Does this mean I have to bed her again?"

Elijah raises a brow. 

"Yes, I know that was unkind," Orlando sighs. "Dear God, Elijah. How I wish for things that cannot be. The deceptions are simply multiplying."

"Perhaps I need to leave," Elijah offers quietly. "Take a job and a flat in London where we can meet without anyone knowing." 

Orlando looks up. "Don't ever say that. I could not stand not seeing you every day."

Elijah smiles softly. "Nor I. But it may come to that. We need to consider it."

Orlando stands. "I'm not prepared to, Elijah. I don't know how this will play out. But your leaving is not an eventuality I can bear."

Elijah steps forward and places his hand on Orlando's arm. "You are being blind in this matter, Orlando. Of all your astuteness in matters concerning the estate, this is one area you may be leaving unguarded. We have to plan ahead, for your own protection. You cannot afford not to."

Orlando covers Elijah's hand. "Leave it with me," he says. 

*

The summer winds on towards September. Projects on the grounds begin to approach completion, and the reasons for trips into London decrease in exact proportion to the increase in libidinal urgency between Elijah and Orlando. 

By now, Elijah has come to receive as well as give. There is no preference between the two of them. They switch depending upon their moods. Orlando finds that it offers some kind of strange blessing to relinquish dominance, and for Elijah, it is just the opposite. One thing that never seems to change, however, is their avid hunger for each other. Like poison oak, scratching the itch, to quote Elijah, has only made it more pronounced.

For Elijah, the repressive existence of their daily life is a situation that is manageable. His circumstance, after all, is one of taking what gets dealt in life. Each night, as he helps Orlando prepare for bed, he slips close and whispers in his ear. "Tonight," he might say, "as I lie in my bed and take myself in hand, it will be your lips I imagine sucking my cock. You are closer to me than you know, no more than one storey, a bit of concrete and timber between us. It is nothing to my imagination. Some nights, I swear I feel the weight of you pressing through the floor, sinking into me exquisitely and pinning me to the mattress."

For Orlando, however, it is an overbearing frustration. He is a man of action, of making things happen. No matter the challenge, he is of a temperament that tackles all situations head on. The homosexual dilemma, however, is the exception. He knows that Elijah's logic and recommendation that he be relocated is absolutely sound in principal. There is, however, the extenuating circumstance that Orlando simply cannot live with it. And so he struggles on, biting his tongue when it threatens to become too acid with his wife, wishing that she would take Mortensen by the balls and bed him just so that he had some leverage.

*

"How was your night?" Orlando asks one morning after the turn of the month as he idly sluices water over the suds that Elijah has been lathering onto his chest. The washcloth disappeared from use sometime in July; bath times now are skin upon skin.

"Pleasurably spent," Elijah grins. "Last night, we were in a remote cottage in the Highlands, a small dwelling we'd taken after a day of grouse hunting. We chose to forswear the bedrooms because the living area had an enormous stone fireplace. We tackled an excellent bottle of single malt after a meal of our own making."

"And what did we do after this meal of our own making?" Orlando smiles, his finger tracing up Elijah's forearm. This pattern of storytelling had become a part of the morning bath routine, their way of building a world they both can live in apart from the real one pressing down on them.

"We enjoyed a dessert of our making," Elijah replies, his eyes coming up to meet Orlando's. "It was mouth-filling and deliciously sweet."

Orlando's eyes crinkle. "Was the fire very warm?"

"It crackled," Elijah replies, his hands curling over Orlando's shoulders, around to the nape of his neck. "Will you be washing your hair today?"

"Not today. Did we become very warm as we watched the flames and drank our whisky?"

"Exceedingly so. There was no course but to strip down."

"I can imagine how you looked, the flames reflecting on your skin and hair."

"What you cannot imagine was how you looked to me, bronzed by the firelight, your lips still wet from the scotch."

"Is that a fact?" Orlando grins. "Hand me my tea so that I might recreate that."

Elijah kneels back and sees that the cup is empty. "Hold on while I pour you one," he says. He's already on his feet.

"Don't go," Orlando whines.

"Wet lips," Elijah grins as he turns quickly towards the door. 

He sees her the instant he enters the bedroom, turned towards him and sitting on the far side of the bed where she has been listening, a hand covering her mouth. He freezes, blood flooding from his face. It is as if his heart has exploded inside his being.

Olivia uncovers her mouth. "Get out," she says slowly, each word clipped and low, barely concealing the hatred in her voice. "Never show your face to me again."

The china has begun to clatter against itself within Elijah's hand as he turns to place the cup and saucer on the nearest surface. He quickly gathers his coat from the farthingale chair and hastens from the bedroom. He feels as though he might faint, so sharp and shallow has his breathing become, his legs uselessly feeble. He hears Orlando curse from the bathroom, the sound of skin squeaking against porcelain and water splashing, but Elijah is hell-bent on flight. When he gains the hall, he turns in every direction, scanning for witnesses as he scrubs at unrolling his shirt sleeves, but mercifully, the floor is empty. He braces his hands against the railing of the gallery, drawing deeply into his lungs over and over again. He does not remain there long. His desire is to run and never stop. 

Orlando has slipped in his haste to leave the tub and barked his shin on the rim of it. He's dripping water everywhere. Roughly, he grabs a bath towel and is still wrapping it about his waist by the time he enters the bedroom.

Everything within him is in chaos. His leg hurts, he is paralyzed with fear, he is furious at the manner in which Elijah has been dispatched, he is mortified at having been discovered making overtures to a man but outraged at having been spied upon. He is livid with the fact that his indiscretion should beat out his wife's, thus giving her the moral highroad. There is nowhere he wants more than to be with Elijah, gathering him in, telling him that he'll be safe, that he need not worry, that together they will sort this out. He's well aware of the damage his wife can do. Above all, he's angry with himself for not having done everything in his power to have prevented this moment from happening, so angry that he's ready to strike out at anyone and anything. 

Olivia immediately sees the wildness in his eyes and quickly stands, ready to flee down the passageway if necessary. "Stay on that side of the bed," she warns before looking down at the rumpled sheets in horror. "My god, was he… _here_?"

Orlando's shoulders are heaving from the air he is hauling into his lungs. "Never. It is not like that," he manages, knowing that when all else fails, lie.

Olivia turns, frantically looking about before grabbing the floral bouquet in the nearby window vase by its stems and tossing them to the floor so that she might retch into the water. Orlando leans forward and presses his fists against his skull as he listens to her struggle to recover. Behind his closed eyes, the first images to play across his mind are those of his children. He could weep with remorse. 

"That is how much you sicken me," she gasps, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. "It is horrifying enough to learn one's husband is unfaithful. But that he should take his pleasure with… _a man?_ I would rather have learned you consorted with whores. You are filth, and you dared bring that filth into my bed!"

"I am in hell!" Orlando cries out. "Can you not know that? Do you think I would choose this life if there were any other course?"

Olivia stares at him as if he is mad. "Choice? You speak of choices? What about choosing to forego men altogether? Did that ever cross your mind?"

"Every day of my life," Orlando says bitterly. "Ever since I was old enough to know that this curse would be upon me until the day I die."

Olivia stands silently, her arms shaking, her eyes fixed on his as she takes in what he has told her. She's not a fool. She knows that despite her desire to shed him like a fevered skin, they are stuck together – by law, by money, by children, by social propriety. And despite her outrage, she is not unfamiliar with the implications of the situation. She herself has two cousins, distant enough, who have been the unspoken pariahs within her own family for exactly this reason. But she won't give Orlando the satisfaction of knowing that. Nor can she see her husband follow a similar route. She is as outraged at the discovery of his homosexuality as she is at the prospect that his self-styled curse has become hers as well, one that must be dealt with silently.

"He goes immediately," she says. "There will be no goodbyes to the children."

Orlando nods with overwhelming sadness. "Of course. Give me a day to situate him."

"No. You have today to find him a roof, although if I had my way, he'd be kicked to the gutter. What an appalling lack of judgment on your part, Orlando, to involve yourself with someone who is not even your equal. I suppose he'll want money to keep his mouth shut."

"He'll want nothing. For God's sake, you know him, Olivia. He's beyond deceit. He was raised God-fearing."

She laughs derisively. "Hardly God-fearing enough. I can only imagine what his father will think…"

"That's enough!" he shouts before lowering his voice. "You will do nothing to destroy his reputation. This stops here. He will leave, and you and I will move on."

"Do you really think so?" she asks snidely. "Water finds its own level after all."

"What does that _mean,_ Olivia?" Orlando says menacingly, stepping around the bed towards her so that she retreats several steps. "Does that mean that your own hateful revenge will be answered as well? Make no mistake – if so much as an ill word follows him out of this room, you will find yourself on the receiving end of my own vengance. Do not think I am without my own means of slandering you. I could ruin you." 

She is aghast. "You would do this?"

"If your malice forced me, I would."

"You have nothing on me."

"I have whatever money and title might buy. Don't forget how you have gained your status. Don't think that I couldn't find some stable hand who would attest to your infidelity for the right price."

She gasps at that because it has cut very close to what she had thought was a secret bone. "And you would drag our children through that." It's an accusation, not a question.

He looks at her with dead eyes. "Don't start a war you can't win."

*

Orlando is dressed within the quarter hour and on route to the servants' quarters. As he approaches the kitchen doorway, Noble emerges from within, straightening when he realizes it is the duke. "Your Grace," he says, surprised by the rare visit. 

Orlando slows, doing everything in his power to collect the turmoil roiling within. "Have you by any chance seen Wood?" he asks casually. "There's a matter I need to discuss with him."

"He happened by not long ago. Said he was suddenly feeling punkish and thought he might rest for a bit. He did look peaked, if I may say. Is there any way I might help you?"

"Good of you to offer, Noble, but no. If you might tell me which room is his."

"Allow me, Your Grace," Noble says, unclasping the hands he's held behind his back and marching ahead of Orlando towards the sleeping quarters. The halls are spare and unadorned, their footsteps echoing off the uncarpeted oak flooring. When they reach the next-to-last room on the right, Noble raps on the door.

It opens a fraction, a somber spectacled eye peering up at them.

"Thank you, Noble," Orlando says pleasantly by way of dismissal, stepping between his butler and the door way. He waits for Noble to leave and for Elijah to open the door, and when he has done so, Orlando enters, closing it behind himself. 

In an instant, Orlando takes in the stricken face, the closed valise on the bed with Elijah's bowler resting on it, the travel bag opened and waiting, the folded clothes and small boxes beside it. "Elijah," he starts.

Elijah's hand is immediately up to silence him, his head tipping towards either wall to indicate they stand the chance of being overheard.

Orlando winces, frustrated that this bloody house has eyes and ears everywhere he goes. "There's something I need to discuss with you in the library. Finish what you are doing and then come see me, if you would." He reaches out and pulls Elijah to his chest. But he might as well be embracing a bedpost, so rigid and unresponsive is the man within his arms. He kisses his hair and pets it, hating the protective barrier that Elijah has already started to erect, understanding it nonetheless. Elijah nods as Orlando releases him and silently watches him leave.

As Orlando passes the doorway to the kitchen, he steps in, Noble and the cooking staff promptly rising to attention in his presence. "Don't let me interrupt," Orlando says, pleasantly enough. "A word, if I may," he tells Noble, who steps into the corridor with him. "Do you mind rounding up Monaghan? Something has come up that requires I take Wood to London, a family matter. I should be back this evening."

"Your breakfast, Your Grace," Noble says with the type of alarm that accompanies major changes of a minor nature.

"Pack us something for the road," Orlando tells him. 

*

"Where were you planning to go?" 

They sit across from each other in the library, both on the edge of their chairs. Elijah's leg bounces nervously, and it is all Orlando can do to keep from reaching out to still it.

"Over Norton."

"To your father's house? No, Elijah, your life will not move backwards."

Elijah says nothing.

"We will go into London. For tonight at the very least, you will stay at my aunt's home. She will have something to say about this, I have no doubt, but for the sake of appearances, that is where you and I will presently go. I need time to think this through. I need time," he finishes, clearly agitated.

"And once I am there, what will I do?"

"Elijah," Orlando whispers, leaning forward. "We need somewhere to talk and it cannot be here. Your leaving with all of your belongings needs a story. For now, let's get you somewhere where we can talk and I can bloody well think." 

Elijah knows better than to insist on any other course of action. He takes a slim measure of comfort in knowing that Orlando is not abandoning him outright, that there is at least a day that they have left together, but his situation is obvious. He is unemployed. He is the third, troublesome, powerless player in a wretched case of infidelity that could blow up into a nightmare of epic proportions. While his heart and soul adjust to an eventuality that he always knew was likely, he didn't think it would be this day, and he didn't think it would be this way. It is disgustingly tawdry and shameful. He is, at the very least, grateful to have Orlando with him for a few hours more. Beyond that, he holds little hope. He expects he will be disposed of like a piece of property, hustled off to become a forgotten player in the history of this great house.

It's a quiet drive back to the city. Elijah sits in the back with Orlando, silent, looking out at the disappearing fields and hedgerows. Orlando reclines against the opposite seat wall, eyes closed and arms folded, his legs stretched out and similarly crossed at the ankles, for all appearances catching a pleasant nap while the miles pass by. In actual fact, he is working out options, and by the time they arrive at the gate of Philippa's town home, a plan has begun to take shape. 

*

"Olivia knows."

Philippa parks her head at an angle, brows raised. She and Orlando are seated in her parlour, having left Elijah to sit alone in the hallway, hat in his lap. 

"Am I to conclude by the look on the face of your valet in the hall," she says, "that she not only knows about you and men but she knows about you and him as well?"

Orlando doesn't reply.

"Well, nephew, that's a fine kettle you've decided to poach yourself in."

"I need to beg you to let Elijah stay until he can find a flat. If I were to leave him at a hotel today, I fear he would disappear without a trace."

"I'm more concerned about you, Orlando. What risk are you at?"

The nervous anxiety that Orlando has been displaying, pitched forward on the edge of his seat, forearms on his knees, and hands agitated, disappears as he looks squarely at his aunt. "Olivia will not be a problem."

Philippa accepts all the unspoken implications of that statement with a short nod. "Will the valet?"

"No."

"And does he want to flee?" Philippa asks. 

"Yes. He's in shock, frankly. We both are. And he's terrified." 

"I suppose being suddenly unemployed must be terrifying," Philippa says, not that she knows. She exhales slowly, ending with a harrumph. "How serious are you two?"

Orlando stops wringing his hands and looks up, eyes bright. "I love him like I've loved no other. Heavens knows if he and I will ever touch each other again. But that doesn't matter. I need to keep him in my life, if only from a distance."

Philippa is not so removed from the passions of youth that she has forgotten the power of such feelings. "This is breaking your heart," she says.

"He is someone I had hoped to know my entire life. He is very precious to me."

"More so than your wife." It is not a question.

"She never had my heart, whereas he had it from the first. I cannot explain it any more significantly than that."

Philippa sits back at this. "And what of him?"

"The same." Orlando sighs. "What a bastard mess this has become."

"In a word," Philippa agrees. "He can't stay more than a night, you know that. Olivia will be on my doorstep within a day or two, weeping and wailing her plight to me."

"Maybe. If she hasn't already thrown herself into the arms of my stable manager."

Philippa sits back all over again. "Now _that_ is interesting."

"Isn't it."

"You are certain she won't tell anyone?"

"I am. I don't even know if she will tell you, apart from bemoaning that I am having an affair."

Philippa flutters her fingers in the air. "The affairs seem to fall like autumn leaves within your household." She is thoughtful for a minute before she adds, "You are fortunate that Olivia is at a distance from her family and has not yet built strong alliances in society. Otherwise, this could turn out very differently."

"If it weren't for the children, I suspect it would. She is angry enough."

"And vanity. There's that idiotic notion in matters such as these that if she'd been up to her womanly duties, you wouldn't have turned to men."

Orlando closes his eyes at the absurdity of the statement. "Auntie, I'm giving him money to find a flat. He won't stay."

"And what if he takes your money and disappears?"

"He won't. His conscience would probably kill him otherwise. But I cannot see him destitute. His circumstance is my doing."

"I suppose it goes without saying that you two don't intend to break this off."

"I can't, not for my part. He and I haven't even had a chance to talk with any privacy."

"Dear me," Philippa says. "I think all of this distress calls for tea. Let's get your young man in here so that he doesn't feel any more abandoned than he already does, poor thing. I'll leave you two to it."

Orlando looks up at her, and for the first time since he left Blenheim, he smiles.

Final chapter next week...


End file.
